


no civilising hides our animal impulses

by fragilelittleteacup



Category: Arrested Development, Ozark (TV)
Genre: AU: Corruption, Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Affection, Alternate Universe - Dark, Awkwardness, Banter, Denial, Desperation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Explicit Sexual Content, First Kiss, Flirting, Guns, Illegal Activities, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Incest, Inspired by Ozark (TV), Knives, Love, M/M, Minor Character Death, Murder, Organized Crime, Psychological Drama, Repression, Speech Disorders, Tender Sex, Torture, Violence, Whump
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-19
Updated: 2018-07-26
Packaged: 2019-04-25 00:53:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 15,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14367408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fragilelittleteacup/pseuds/fragilelittleteacup
Summary: It was a hard edge in his gaze, a smile that lingered too long and betrayed a bitter kind of resentment. It was a quiet laugh in a silent office, the sun not yet risen, his silhouette outlined before a large window. It was his calculated patience. His skill with numbers, the fact that he controlled the company books. It was the confidence with which his pen flew across documents, the ruthlessness and precision of his business dealings.Michael was intelligent.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from Animal Impulses by IAMX. Inspired by [this post](https://andithil.tumblr.com/post/163473800565), and [these GIFs](https://alivingsaint.tumblr.com/post/164314488481/corruption-au-narrative-1-michael-bluth-is).

Michael Bluth was an unassuming guy.

He was inoffensive, kind, and morally-driven. He always inclined toward forgiveness rather than hatred, and would choose flight over fight every single time. He came from money but did not flaunt it. He wore cornflower blue shirts, pale grey ties, and ironed his clothes by hand. He was attractive, but dressed as if to distract from this fact. His hairstyle was boring and almost endearing in its simplicity, indicative of the dutiful practicality with which he dressed and presented himself to the world. He did not wake up and greet the day with excitement. He had a smile for everyone he met, but those were not smiles of personal fulfilment. He was the hardworking husband, the backbone of the American dream. He had painted the archetypal fence white, bought himself a reasonably priced car, and settled down for less than he truly desired because it was a path that had been destined for him.

That was what people believed, anyway.

The reputation of his family clung to him like a faint scent; a quiet thing that whispered possibilities to everybody that interacted with him. Business partners. Strangers. Employees. Lovers, occasionally. And usually those people were able to brush aside the nagging sensation that he was more than he appeared because, well, he just didn’t seem _capable_ of that. He’d lost his wife to tragic circumstances. He’d raised his son alone, practically, while running a failing business well enough to revive it from the darkness of debt and legal proceedings. People felt sorry for him. They pitied him, pitied that such a _nice_ man should have been born into such a greedy, selfish family.

But sometimes people could tell.

It was a hard edge in his gaze, a smile that lingered too long and betrayed a bitter kind of resentment. It was a quiet laugh in a silent office, the sun not yet risen, his silhouette outlined before a large window. It was his calculated patience. His skill with numbers, the fact that he controlled the company books. It was the confidence with which his pen flew across documents, the ruthlessness and precision of his business dealings.

Michael was intelligent.

People still considered him to be harmless. The feats he accomplished were lost to the meekness of his personality, and people were deceived. If only they could have known the truth. If only they had known that from Chicago to Panama, Moscow to Tel Aviv, Michael Bluth could make one hundred million in dirty money disappear like spit on a hot skillet.

And he had been laundering money for a very, very long time.

 

 

***

 

The dryers made mechanical thumping sounds as they turned.

Michael sat on the edge of a metal table in the middle of the cavernous room, unmoving and unspeaking. It was hard to tell what he was thinking. His hands were folded calmly in his lap, fingers interlocked. His face had settled into an expressionless mask, and in the darkness of the laundromat he seemed almost frightening; like there was something boiling beneath his skin that he was itching to let out. Anger, perhaps. Or maybe he was just bored.

The overhead lights were switched off, and when his phone screen lit up it illuminated the whole room in a flash of blue, lighting his face from below. He glanced down at the caller ID and sighed patiently. When he picked up the phone, it scraped metallically against the table’s scratched surface.

“Hello, Gob.”

 _“Hey, brother,”_ came a murmured reply, _“What're you up to?”_

Michael inclined his chin forward, a wry smile twitching at his mouth. He rubbed his eyes, thumb pressing down and making colours spark behind his eyelids. The room was still dark, and he was tired. “You know what I’m doing. And I told you not to call me tonight.”

 _“…Yeah, I remember what you said. Said you had a date.”_ There was a distant thud over the phone line, as if Gob were smacking his hand against something in frustration. _“But see, I know you and dad have been talking. Whispering, behind my back. And you haven’t got a date, Michael. You haven’t had a date in years.”_

Michael raised his eyebrows, unimpressed and unfazed by his brother’s suspicion. “Glad to know you have faith in my romantic life.”

Gob inhaled deeply, and then let out a heavy groan. _“Oh, Michael. You think you’re so… slick.”_

“I’ve never aspired to be anything remotely close to ‘slick’, Gob.”

 _“Where are you right now? What are you doing for dad?”_ Gob’s tone hardened into a demand. _“I’m the older brother, I should have more responsibility.”_

“You don’t handle responsibility well, Gob.”

_“Screw you.”_

Michael smiled again, almost genuinely amused this time. “Screw you, huh? What, you wanna be my date for the night?”

_“Very funny, Michael.”_

“I like to think so.”

_“Look, I’m serious. Let me help you, whatever’s going on. I wouldn't want to… make a scene. And you know I could.”_

Michael barely even blinked. He still looked disinterested, and he was not taking Gob’s half-formed threat seriously. But he pursed his lips, glanced at the rotating bags of cash crowding the dryers, and decided his brother’s company might not be the worst thing in the world. He had to clean a lot of money, and he had to do it alone. He was getting tired of that. Gob was a walking disaster, but if there was anything that motivated him it was family devotion; and fuck, Michael shouldn’t have had to carry all this burden on his shoulders in the first place.

“Alright,” he replied, decision made, “I’ll text you the address. Come here alone. Take your most nondescript car– if you can manage that– and do not bring a phone. Nobody can know you’re coming here, or what we’re doing.”

There was a long stretch of silence, during which Michael could practically see his brother’s face relaxing into a genuinely euphoric grin. He wondered what Gob was doing now, why he’d felt the need to make such a call at midnight on a Saturday. He didn't have company, that much was obvious. Imagining Gob alone in an empty bed, in an empty house, filled Michael with a swell of empathy that he didn’t quite know how to reconcile. He remembered them as children, how simple things had been back then. Gob had never really grown up, and he didn’t seem to feel the distance between them as two vastly different adult men. He’d never known conflict. He’d never lost a wife, never raised a child. His immediate family was all he had, and he was clinging to days long gone, unable to look forward or build his own future. It was uncomfortable for Michael. He knew that Gob relied on him,  _needed_ him, in ways a brother probably shouldn't.

 _“Thank you, Michael,”_ Gob whispered, _“I… I won’t disappoint you.”_

Michael nodded, not trusting himself to reply.

He hung up.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

Michael continued to work while he waited for Gob to arrive. Money hummed through a note counter, the dry hush of paper tempering the oppressive silence of the laundromat. He watched those neat, rectangular shapes flip and settle, considering– as he often did– the dominos that modern society was built on. Paper and plastic and numbers. Power was abstract, and you had to be clever to sink your teeth into currency these days. Brutality was a slow build. Financial tenacity was a logical progression of intellect. At this very moment, in this place, he had money. He had power.

But outside, in a dark car with heavily tinted windows, there sat two highly trained cartel members. They had course skin, hard faces, and eyes like smoothly polished riverbed stones. They were dressed in full black, and had thin gold lighters that they used to light white-filtered cigarettes of the most prestigious brand. They were professionals. They were killers. They were bodyguards. They were both the reward for laundering and the punishment, and Michael knew that this was the price of winning. It didn’t bother him because he believed in cause and effect; he didn’t have faith in the cartel, and wasn’t dumb enough to place his trust in murderers, but he had made a name for himself and his family. He followed through. That was valuable, and not something to be underestimated. He tapped out a short text to a number he’d never given an ID, sent it off without expecting a reply.

_George Oscar Bluth arriving soon. Alone._

He wondered if Gob would be as calm. Whether he’d panic at the _size_ of it all, or possibly get caught up in the moral implications of pedalling drugs to faceless crowds. Michael hummed, tapping absentmindedly on the table. His blunt nails made quiet sounds against the metal, and he thought about his brother. Fuck it, the man was an adult. He could handle it, and he’d have found out eventually anyway. Anyone with their last name needed to be in on the realities of their business dealings or they’d risk exposure through sheer ignorance.

His phone vibrated against the table; an explosion of sound in the quiet. If it startled him, he didn’t react. He answered with a composed, unchanged expression.

“You arrived?”

 _“Yeah, I’m here,”_ Gob replied, mumbling conspiratorially like someone was going to hear him from inside his own car, _“Where exactly_ is _here, Michael?”_

“You’re in the alleyway?”

_“Yeah. Where are you?”_

“Park the car there, lock it.” Michael retrieved the neat pile of money from the note counter, his voice steady and level as he turned away from the table. “Don’t leave anything valuable inside. Walk back out onto the street, come into the laundromat.”

_“Which laundromat?”_

“The one on the opposite side of the street to the black car.”

_“The… The black car?”_

“Yes, Gob. The black car.”

_“Why… Why is there a black-”_

“Because there just is, will you just get your ass in here? We don’t have all night to get this done. Ignore the damn car.”

Michael hung up. During his reprimand of Gob his voice had not risen, and his tone had not changed. He was calm, largely because he had expected Gob to drag his feet on this initially. He placed the stack of money he’d just counted into a bag, tightened the strings, opened a machine and placed it inside. Then he crossed his arms, turned steadily on his heel, planted his feet and waited for Gob to come around.

It took a little over a minute.

Gob’s shadow darkened the door, the shape of him outlined against the newspaper that blanketed the glass entranceway, a glow falling behind him from the dirty orange streetlights outside. Very noir. If he were a photographer or some shit, Michael would probably have found this moment beautiful, even climactic. As it was, he just wanted Gob to get on with it so that they could get down to business. He watched without speaking, without welcoming his brother inside. Better that Gob be a bit scared and get a sense of how much this mattered. He needed to understand how truly underground this venture was.

The door creaked open slowly. It sounded like the mouth of a tomb, yawning wide. Gob’s fingers curled tentatively around the metal doorframe, gripping hard enough to betray his nervousness.

“Michael…?”

His shoes scuffed quietly against the dusty floor as he stepped inside. His gaze fell upon his brother, where he stood shrouded in the darkness, near four churning dryers. Light spilled from the street into the laundromat as Gob entered, painting a vivid stripe over the left side of Michael’s face. His eye, heavily shadowed beneath his brow, seemed black, and Gob had never before imagined his younger sibling this way. He swallowed, throat suddenly dry, wondering what he’d just gotten himself into, what his family had been involved in long before he had decided he wanted to offer input.

“You look like you’re on your way to a goddamn party,” Michael observed flatly.

Gob felt a flush of embarrassment, glancing down to regard his Battistoni button-down and fitted suit pants. His hair was slicked back, too, as if he’d taken time to dress up for Michael’s sake.

He had.

“I, uh. Didn’t know what else to wear.” He laughed uncomfortably, fidgeting. Michael gestured for him to close the door, so Gob did. As he turned to do so, he again spied the black car across the road, windows obscuring any occupants inside. But he remembered what Michael had said over the phone, so he did what he was told and didn’t inquire again. When he was younger his parents had worried about him being easily led, but that was an asset now, for those within the Bluth family. Good little Gob, always so eager to please.

Michael leaned one hand against a dryer, hips slanted to the side. Now that the door was closed, his face was almost indistinguishable again, and Gob’s eyes hadn’t properly adjusted to the darkness.

“I want you in on this, that’s the first thing you need to understand. The second is that you need to come through for me, Gob.” Michael held out a hand, palm down, gesturing authoritatively as he spoke. The cadence of his voice was steady and flat. “Because if you mess up, your fate will not be up to me. It’ll be up to those men out there, in that car.”

Gob nodded, mouth pressed into a tight line. He didn’t ask who they were, and he could’ve sworn he saw Michael smile in approval. They watched each other for a long moment.

“I need you to be aware how serious this is.”

“Well, you,” Gob laughed nervously, “You haven’t _told_ me what’s going on, so how can I possibly-”

Michael pulled a gun from the waistband of his jeans.

“Jesus!” Gob jumped backwards, both hands flying up in an automatic instinct to protect himself, “What the fuck, Michael!”

“Calm down,” Michael told him quietly, “Calm down and listen to me.”

Gob slowly lowered his hands, back against the door now. His heart was thrashing against his ribcage, blood boiling with the energy that terror creates. He’d never seen a real gun before.

“This right here is a Glock. I have loaded it with hollowpoints. This kind of bullet is designed to flatten or expand upon impact, and while a normal bullet may pass right through the target and leave a clean wound– like stabbing yourself in the hand with a pencil– a hollowpoint forces a much larger exit wound than entry wound. The bullet punches a tiny hole in the front and the pressure blows a giant hole out the back. Head, torso, leg, arm... it doesn’t matter. The survival rate is lessened considerably if a victim is shot with a hollowpoint. You following this?”

Gob nodded, dizzy with confusion. Michael began to walk towards him, weighing the gun in his palm.

“I have seen somebody killed with a gun identical with this one. A human being. Do you understand that?”

Gob blinked. The pain in his head, growing with every word Michael spoke, turned the scene before him into a blurry, hyperreal mess. But Michael’s voice was confident and reassuring, leading him through this surreality like a parent taking their child by the hand and helping them take their first few steps.

“Who?” Gob breathed. "Who died in front of you?"

Michael’s expression tightened a little. “A supplier who didn’t come through, Gob. But that wasn’t what I asked. What I _asked_ was whether you understand. Because that is the most important thing here. Otherwise you could get hurt. Or you could get me hurt.”

This close, Gob could see the lines of his brother’s face, could see the age that had nestled there and hardened, turning him into somebody else. Michael had transformed, and Gob hadn’t even seen it happening. It was like standing next to a hurricane. He was taller than Michael by a good amount, but he felt tiny. Inconsequential next to the violence that lingered in the shadows of Michael’s bright irises.

Michael took Gob's hand. Lifted it, turned his wrist so that his palm faced the ceiling. Gob spread his fingers without needing to be told, and then cold metal was being pressed into his hand.

“This is the world that earned us a fortune, Gob,” Michael told him, “and if you want to be a part of this world, you need to accept that we are not good people. There is no such thing as a good person.”

Gob gawked down at the gun in his hand. He was too stunned to be horrified.

“So. You in?”

Gob looked up. Michael grinned expectantly, the expression almost satirical in nature, as if he expected his brother to back out. On the basis of that alone, Gob straightened up and nodded tersely.

“I’m in.”

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

Michael told Gob everything.

He went through every detail, not leaving anything out, and Gob was hypnotised by the rise and fall of his voice. The easeful way that he described it all. He was as matter-of-fact about money laundering as he would be about commonplace topics; the weather outside, the stock market, the balance of the company books, how George Michael was doing in school. Gob watched his brother and properly realised, for the first time, that he had never witnessed what rested beneath Michael’s skin. He had seen countless smooth-talking businessmen strutting their confidence about the place, but Michael better than all of them combined. His true strength was that he wasn’t faking it. His conviction was not a bluff.

Gob had never viewed honesty as an asset.

He thumbed a newly-rumpled stack of money, unable to believe how different they were. Had the same blood not flowed through their veins, he wouldn’t have recognised his own sibling. This room was dark, suffocatingly so, but there was a lightness inside him that reminded him of afternoons spent on the beachside. When they were just two boys. He felt that this was a reunion, that a precious trust was renewed between them. He didn’t even have the capacity to be frightened anymore. Anything Michael touched turned to gold, and all Gob wanted was to be a part of his world. The hard edge of a gun, snugly hidden below his untucked shirt, excited him. This was a secret that they shared.

Halfway through stacking money into a tight briefcase, Michael glanced over to where Gob stood. There was a smile on his face. He extended a hand, and Gob passed him the money.

“Five thousand dollars doesn’t look like five thousand dollars,” Michael remarked happily, “even after you’ve counted it twice. Just looks like a stack of paper two and a half inches wide, six inches long, and eight inches high. Could be two grand, could be twenty. Money is so… subjective. The Bureau of Engraving and Printing in Washington produces half a billion dollars every single day. This,” he held up the stack Gob had handed him, “is nothing. The Bureau spends _millions_ on plastic wrap alone because they vacuum pack money in cellophane to make it easier to transport. Meanwhile, only fifteen percent of the American population is on track to fund even one year of retirement. It’s not even about wage gaps at that point, Gob. It’s the system. And the only way to beat that kind of system is to work outside of it.”

Gob chuckled, still somewhat overwhelmed by all of this. He rubbed at his neck, developing a stress headache from lack of sleep. When he checked his watch, it was four in the morning. Michael slotted the stack in beside the rest of the cash. The contents were skewed now, uneven and tattered from their efforts. He closed the briefcase, snapped the clips shut and lifted it by the handle.

“No street cameras around here,” he explained, “otherwise we’d probably need to hide this a little better. Disguise it as laundry or something. The cartel owns this place, opens it occasionally to make it look like a failing– but legitimate– business. I come here randomly, on an as-needed basis, so that there isn't an identifiable pattern.”

Gob glanced towards the door, unable to see the street outside for all the newspaper that was obscuring his view. He assumed that was the point. He cleared his throat, slid his hands into the pockets of his pants.

“That car outside, Michael…”

“They don’t always watch.” Michael sighed, coming to stand in front of him. “They like to remind me that they’re here, y’know. Keep me on my toes.”

Gob smiled, eyelids hooded. He was tired, but felt content. Warm.

“I’ve never known you to _not_ be on your toes, guy.”

Michael laughed. He reached over, clapping a hand onto Gob’s shoulder. Then, after a deliberate pause, he pulled his brother into a hug, tucking his face against Gob’s neck.

“I’m proud of you, buddy."

Gob stiffened initially, shocked by the closeness. It took a long, awkward moment for him to relax, hands eventually coming to rest against the small of Michael’s back. He couldn’t help but shut his eyes, revelling in this moment; the puff of breath against his skin as Michael exhaled, the chest against his, the weight of a hand between his shoulder blades. After a while Michael leaned away, offering him a broad grin. They were still standing close.

“I won’t disappoint you,” Gob promised him again, just like he had on the phone.

Michael nodded. The look on his face said that he believed Gob was telling the truth, and that was all Gob had ever wanted.

 

***

 

They went their separate ways after that, Michael having given Gob instructions to spread the money out using the glorious convenience of automatic teller machines. Gob left first, his car sleek and too nice for this part of town; Michael made a mental note to make Gob use a different model next time. He thought about this as he sat in his own front seat, hands braced on the steering wheel. He was also wondering if he had done the right thing by lying.

Michael Bluth had never seen anybody killed with a hollowpoint bullet.

The supplier who hadn’t come through, he’d died in a much more horrific way. A way that had stayed with Michael for years, because it wasn’t the sort of thing you forgot. Del, the Mexican dealer that controlled this operation, had sat Michael down, calmly explaining that what he was about to see was an example of the punishment would await him if he fucked up. One of Del’s employees– which was a polite way of avoiding the word _assassin_ _–_ had grabbed the poor motherfucker by the jaw and the forehead, forcefully tilting his head towards the ceiling, holding him still as he struggled against the duct tape that was keeping him strapped him in place. Another employee had begun to pour brown powder down the supplier's throat, and only when Michael smelled it did he realise what the powder was. Nutmeg. This had confused him greatly, because he had been unaware that raw nutmeg contains myristicin, which– when ingested in large amounts– results in headaches, hallucinations, heart palpitations, and uncontrollable shaking. After an hour the man was untied, left to writhe around on the floor, coughing up blood and powder and vomit, tripping so severely that he wanted to shed his skin. Michael had watched, crying silently, as the man scratched his face to ribbons. Later he bit off his own tongue. He died choking for air.

The silence had been haunting.

Michael tapped his thumbs against the steering wheel. He thought about Gob, about their easy embrace, the closeness they’d long since abandoned in the face of adulthood and diverging life paths. He thought about innocence, and wondered if this was a mistake.

He didn’t want to see his brother die like that.

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

Gob had lived alone for a long time now.

His apartment was sparse, as far as decor went, and the spartan nature of his home didn’t quite reflect the showy overconfidence he enjoyed displaying to the world. He had a television mounted on the wall before an arrangement of black leather couches, a tidy kitchen that was just big enough to turn around in, and a bedroom with space for a double bed, a bedside table, and a wardrobe. He’d have liked to call it minimalism, but that would’ve been wishful thinking. Fact of the matter was that Gob Bluth had, several years ago, begun to support himself in a valiant effort to find a sense of independence in the suffocating clutch of a midlife crisis. He co-owned a nightclub called The Queen Mary with his brother-in-law Tobias, and business was fine. Not great, not booming, just… fine. He paid rent. He had friends over sometimes. He didn’t do magic tricks any more. He was doing alright, and even mediocrity possessed a certain amount of fulfilment; being free from his father’s money, and his influence, allowed Gob to breathe in a way that he’d never been able to when he was younger. It didn’t matter what George Sr. said at dinner parties, and Gob was prepared to deal with the cutting comments about how he was a failure of a son, because he finally had pride in himself.

The real reason he'd called Michael and demanded to be given more responsibility had nothing to do with their father or with business. He'd simply wanted to be around his brother again.

But, as he arrived home with a briefcase containing an obscene amount of cash, he couldn’t help but feel reborn. _Finally,_ he was back in the game. If money and danger and excitement were by-products of being back in Michael's life then, hell, Gob wasn't going to say no. He locked his front door behind him, discarded his keys on the bench with a clatter, grabbed a butter knife from the cutlery drawer, and headed immediately for his bedroom. He knelt beside his bed and pried up a loose section of floorboards. He removed the items that had been gathering dust there for years; a deck of cards, a photo album, and other keepsakes from his childhood that were just too painful to look at on a daily basis. He turned the briefcase on its side and slotted it into the space, lying it flush beneath the floorboards. It was tight, but it fit perfectly. Beside it he hid the gun that Michael had given him.

Gob grinned to himself and replaced the wood, satisfied when it appeared that nothing had been disturbed. Nobody would be finding that money any time soon. He took the items that had been hidden below his floorboards and stowed them away in a box, not eager to reminisce about any other member of his family except Michael. When he was done, and far too tired to consider showering or having a celebratory drink, he stripped down to his underwear and climbed into bed. His tired body relaxed into the mattress, eyelids growing heavy with the weight of exhaustion.

His gaze, as he drifted off into a dreamless sleep, fixed on the one photograph he still displayed in his home, framed next to his bedside lamp. A yellowed picture of a young boy, the summer polaroid softened to the point almost being whited out. He had a round, smiling face, cheeks pink with the stains of a red popsicle he’d just finished eating, hair sticking up in tufts of chestnut brown. Gob smiled sleepily, content for the first time in years.

“Goodnight, Michael."

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> keep in mind that this is an Ozark crossover y'all! all warnings are tagged.

Gob woke to a sun-warmed bedroom, his white blinds turned yellow by the brightness outside, glimpses of blue sky showing through the slats. Stripes of light were painted across his bare back. He’d kicked the blankets down to the foot of the bed in his sleep, and had ended up sprawled on his stomach, hugging his pillow.

He sat up quickly, already excited for what the day would bring. The first thing he did was kneel down on the floorboards as he had after returning from the laundromat, eager to confirm that the money and gun were still in place before he went to have breakfast. After he had done this he put on a robe and went to the kitchen, switching the coffee machine on and leaving it to heat while he retrieved ingredients from the fridge. Soon enough the small space was brimming with the scents of creamy eggs, salty bacon, rich tomato, and thick wholemeal toast. Gob latched the windows open as he cooked, letting sunlight fill the kitchen, enjoying the chirps of birds and even the distant hum of traffic. It was a good day. For once he had something to look forward to other than taking a shift at the Queen Mary or meeting with his and Tobias’ accountant.

This felt like a new beginning.

He poured himself a coffee, gathered his food onto a plate, and went to eat at the table in his living room. He settled in on one of the couches, slumping comfortably, eyelids hooded and hair still messy from sleep. He turned on the news while he ate, and considered the job that awaited him. Dispersing dirty drug money via automatic teller machines. It sounded like something out of a goddamn movie, and as Gob sipped his coffee he wondered if he should be more stressed about the whole plan. But no, he knew in his heart that this was a foregone conclusion. If it was Michael's will, he would follow.

He made it halfway through his meal before someone knocked on his door.

At first he wasn’t sure what he’d heard. He muted the television, a worried frown tightening his forehead. Then it happened again. Two precise, efficient taps against his door.

Somebody wanted to come inside.

The apartment suddenly felt too small, and Gob was hyperaware of the money beneath his bedroom floor. He wondered if he had hidden it well enough. He wondered if he had been followed home. His mind filled with paranoid scenarios, flickering between possibilities of who could be wanting to come inside; a fucking slideshow ranging from policemen to mafia to hitmen. Gob swallowed thickly, his throat tightening. He got up and advanced out into the hallway. The television continued playing as he left, the faces of grinning newsreaders almost disturbingly ironic given the tightness in his chest and the panic building in his gut.

He leaned down and tried to see through the peephole, but found it to be a pointless exercise. The view was too warped and distorted. He inhaled deeply to steady himself, and then opened the door.

Three men stood before him. Two had square jaws and were built like cruiserweight prizefighters, black suits pulling too tightly against their shoulders and chests, eyes dead cold. The third man was shorter and less intimidating, at least upon first glance. He could have been considered classically handsome, or relatively unremarkable. His hair was grey and his stubble was peppered with white, but the sharpness of his gaze and the tapered shape of his face reflected his true age. He was well-dressed, but not extravagantly so. There was a subdued power in his presence. A subtlety.

“Hello, Mr Bluth.” He said with a smile, words smoothly accented. “My name is Camino Del Rio. May we come inside?”

Gob glanced at the two dark-suited men. He thought of the car with tinted windows, the silent presence that had weighed on his mind while he’d been shovelling money into dryers. The hollowness of the vehicle was matched in kind by the empty look in these men’s eyes. They weren't just requesting entry to his home. They were demanding it.

“…Yeah,” he replied, voice very nearly catching in his throat, “Come in.”

 

*** 

 

He led them inside, trying to breathe normally, wishing to god that he had gotten dressed before they arrived. He led them into the living room, and was about to go put on jeans and a shirt when Del held up a hand to stop him leaving.

"Please," he quietly insisted, "take a seat."

Gob hesitated, uncomfortable that he was being told what to do in his own home. But he could see this situation for it was, and it was more than obvious that the two bodyguards were armed. He sat back down, resisting the urge to draw his robe tighter closed. He felt practically naked. Del and his men remained standing. Gob was under no illusions about who Del was or where the balance of power sat, so he kept his mouth shut and waited.

"I'll be honest with you, George Oscar," Del began with a patient sigh.

"Gob."

Del fell silent, his gaze hardening. "Excuse me?"

 _Fuck,_ Gob thought, cursing himself.

"I don't go by my, uh," he gestured nervously, "given names. Michael and everyone else, they call me Gob. Like Jeb Bush, you know. My initials make my name, so."

He laughed anxiously. Del stared at him for a long moment. Gob was half convinced he was about to be killed just for the disrespect of speaking up. Then Del smiled, the expression flat and astonished, but mildly amused.

"Alright. I'll be honest, Gob. I'm not convinced of your competency. I hired Michael because he is brilliant, but you have a long history of..." Del considered what might be the appropriate word to use, glancing at one of his bodyguards as if they would offer an opinion, "... _recklessness._ Which is bad news in my business. You need to be useful to me. Because, if you are not useful to me, you are a liability. And liabilities need to be eliminated."

Gob nodded, feeling lightheaded, though he was determined not to show it.  _Eliminated._ Shit, Michael really had gotten him involved with some shady people. The drama would've been funny had the joke not hinged on a literal life or death situation.

"Prove to me that you're not still the womanising playboy of your youth, and I might just let you live."

Gob sighed. That, at least, he could do. He looked up at Del with nothing but honesty in his expression. "The proof is around you."

Del contemplated that, but seemed unconvinced. "Is it."

"I was reckless when I was younger, you're right. I wouldn't have trusted me back then either. But I left that life. I don't have a large expendable income. I pay rent. I work at a bar that I own. The only flashy I thing I have is my car, and I've owned that for years. I'm not living the high life any more, guy, and I'm not ashamed to admit that."

One of the bodyguards blinked. Del chuckled, an amount of genuine amusement showing in his face.

"Did you just call me 'guy', Mr Bluth?"

"Oh- Shit, I-"

"I expect a level of respect from my employees."

"Yes, of course. Of course. Sorry." Gob's face was burning. "I didn't-"

"No, no," Del took a few slow strides forward, reaching into his pocket, "You're a funny guy. I like that. Michael is funny, too. I can see you share a lot of qualities with him."

With that deceptively friendly comment, he pulled something from his coat. Calmly, he placed the tip of the switchblade beneath Gob's chin, tilting his wrist so that Gob was forced to crane his head upward and look into the eyes of the man who would either be his employer or his killer. If he tried to speak in this position, the blade would slice through his skin like wire through putty. From the corner of his eye, he noticed one of the bodyguards smirking. Anger and fear boiled in Gob's stomach, acidic in its intensity. He felt humiliated. Tremors began to shudder through him, tingling down to the tips of his fingers, making his heart sprint in his chest. He clenched his hands, fighting to at least _appear_ calm, saliva pooling on his tongue as he resisted the urge to swallow.

Del looked down at him.

When he was good and ready, he moved the knife from Gob's chin to the side of his neck, almost tenderly trailing it over fragile skin. A warning. A reminder that Gob could die at any second if Del were so inclined.

"What is your motivation?" Del asked, the gentleness of his tone at odds with the violence of his actions. "Why do you want to launder money for me?"

Gob was about to lie, to say that he just wanted a cut of the profits. But that wouldn't have been true. Money was a means to an end, a necessary evil, a disease that had turned most of his family into greedy socialites who went rabid at the sight of dollar signs. He closed his eyes, briefly, and accepted that he would have to be honest.

"Michael," he whispered, "Because of Michael."

"I asked what your motivation is, not who's giving you instructions."

"And I just told you. He's my... My motivation." Gob looked off to the side, uncomfortable. The knife slid down a little lower, digging into the hollow above his collarbone. He hissed and stiffened when Del broke skin, a drop of blood beading against the point of the blade.

"I'm not lying," Gob insisted, breaths hastening, "Michael is- He's everything to me. I'm doing this for him. What matters to him matters to me. I won't let you down. I won't let  _him_ down."

The knife pressed down a little more. A droplet of blood spilled down over Gob's collarbone, staining the edge of his robe.

" _Jesus,_ I'm not lying," Gob repeated, "Stop it-"

"You would risk over twenty years in prison for Michael. You would risk torture. Suffering. Conflict. All for him _?_ "

Gob nodded jerkily, eyes pressed shut now, the skin over his knuckles straining white as he resisted every instinct to try and fend Del off. If he tried he'd be at the business end of the other men's fists, or worse.

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because- Because I'm loyal to-"

The knife dug deeper, flesh giving way a little more, causing a white-hot burst of pain to whiplash through Gob's body.

"Do not lie to me."

"Because..." Gob's voice trailed off with a quiver, and he knew fucking around with the truth wouldn't save him now. "Because I love him."

There was a pause. The longest pause Gob had ever experienced. He watched fuzzy, indistinct colours beneath his eyelids, face taut with a pained grimace, waiting on tenterhooks to see what would happen next.

Finally, the knife disappeared. Del tugged it free from the inch-deep cut it had made, and Gob swallowed down the pained yelp that threatened to break past his teeth at the sensation.

"Will you guard my money with your life, Mr Bluth?"

Gob opened his eyes. He thought of Michael, and only because of him did he have the courage to answer in the affirmative.

"Yes," he promised.

"Good." Del handed the knife to one of his men, and then turned back to regard Gob where he sat. His face was impassive. "Because I like Michael, you see. And he would be quite upset, I think, if I killed you. And I imagine you would be devastated if I killed him to make a point, hmm?"

Of all the things that had happened thus far, this was what truly frightened Gob. His jaw tightened as he clenched his teeth, and the fire must have shown in his eyes because Del grinned, obviously entertained. He had gotten what he wanted. He had the ammunition of a secret, now. Gob's secret.

"That won't be necessary," Gob ensured him flatly.

"Good. We'll see ourselves out."

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

Michael's fingers made consistent tapping sounds against his keyboard. He had been working steadily all morning, processing numbers and statistics and information, working at a pace that put the rest of his office to shame. He didn't like to brag, and knew that being humble was the best insurance against people suspecting him of nefarious deeds, but he was well aware of his own capabilities. He liked what he did, and he liked the fact that he was good at it. His bookkeeping was pristine, his accounts were finely managed to allow for the laundering of money through construction costs, and what the Mexicans allowed him to keep he pocketed in increasing amounts. It was nice to feel that he had control.

Michael's phone rang. He picked it up, regarding the screen with mild surprise when he saw Gob's name displayed. He assumed that Gob was experiencing anxiety regarding the legality– or otherwise– of their dealings. He had fallen out of contact with his brother for quite some time now, and was not aware how much Gob had changed. He certainly was not aware of what Gob had told Del.

"Hey, Gob."

_"Hey, Mikey."_

Michael frowned. There was a forced joviality to Gob's voice, and it wasn't convincing. Something was seriously wrong. "...Everything okay? You having second thoughts?"

_"No, no, nothing like that..."_ Gob's voice trailed off, and he took a deep, shaking breath. _"I, uh. Got a visit this morning. From my new boss."_

Michael felt his stomach drop. "Del?"

_ "Yeah." _

"Shit, Gob. Sorry. I should've... I should've said something. You okay, huh? Need me to come around?"  He heard his own voice change, shifting into a worried, caring tone that he hadn't used for years. With anyone else it'd seem patronising, but Gob knew him better than that– and the moment of honesty between them shocked them both into a mutual silence, the phone line buzzing faintly for several seconds.

_"I'm good, Michael. I just..."_

Michael waited for Gob to continue. He didn't like the softness of his brother's voice, didn't like the way his usual easygoing humour had given way to something much more vulnerable and honest. Gob didn't let his guard down like this. He just didn't.

_"I'll distribute the cash. You can count on me."_

Gob hung up. Michael stared at his phone, truly concerned now. He stood, decision made, grabbing his jacket from the back of his chair. He headed for the door.

 

***

 

Michael had never been to Gob’s apartment. He found the address through Facebook, of all places, and was almost ashamed of how little he actually knew about his brother. It was only when he arrived that he _truly_ realised how out of the loop he was; where he had been expecting a skyscraper made exclusively of glass and metal, he found a four-story brick building with a garden out front and a concrete parking lot. Aside from his stint with Marta, Michael had only ever known Gob to reside on yachts and in penthouse suites– he could never have imagined that Gob would settle down _here._

Feeling overwhelmed by all the time together that they had lost, he climbed the stairs to the third floor. He knocked on the door labelled with the number fourteen, and waited.

And kept waiting.

He checked his phone, confirmed he was at the right address, and then knocked again.

“Gob?” He called out. “It’s me, Michael. Would you open up?”

There was the sound of a lock turning, and then a deadbolt. Gob opened the door just enough to reveal his face. He was trying to smile, but the effect wasn’t a reassuring one. He looked pale, and for some reason seemed to be holding a bunched-up robe in his hands.

“I told you I was okay,” Gob reminded him, “Go back to work.”

Michael raised his eyebrows. “You don’t look okay.”

Gob didn’t seem to be able to conjure up a reply to that. Before he could protest, Michael placed his hand flat against the wooden floor, pushing it open wider; enough to reveal the bleeding cut in Gob's collarbone, deep enough that it looked dark in the centre. Blood stained his left pectoral.

“…The fuck…?”

“It’s fine,” Gob stepped back as Michael advanced inside, “Michael, just-“

“He did this to you?” Michael’s voice rose, anger sharpening his tone. “Are you serious?”

“Don’t,” Gob protested, holding up a hand, “Don’t make a big deal out of this.”

Michael was furious. He laid a hand gently on Gob’s arm, hushing his brother when he flinched, leaning forward to inspect the wound. Gob was still breathing hard, though he tried to hide it, and Michael was going to kick Del’s ass for this. They had a fucking understanding. A shared respect. They’d discussed business over whiskey and been to fucking golfing retreats. Del knew how much family meant to Michael, which meant this was a deliberate insult. He wanted to punish Michael for bringing Gob into this in the first place. The guilt that realisation brought made Michael feel sick, and he tried not to think of nutmeg and myristicin and finality.

“Michael…”

“No. No, this isn’t right. I’m gonna dress this, okay?” Michael looked into his eyes, nodding resolutely. “You take a seat on the couch, I’m gonna fix this all up for you. I got you into this and I’m taking care of it.”

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hhhhh i've had like 5 rum and cokes so if there's spelling mistakes etc i apologise profusely, pls ignore them~ also i'm taking a more realistic/serious look at the way gob and michael were raised, so take note of that. everything is tagged.
> 
>  
> 
> edit: just found some spelling mistakes. fixed 'em.

Michael led Gob to one of the leather couches, one hand hovering tentatively near the small of his back; he hesitated to so casually touch his brother after all the time they’d spent apart. He wasn’t quite sure what the reasoning behind this was. Gob’s shoulders were brown and dotted with freckles, and Michael couldn’t help but look at him, eyes travelling guiltily over skin he didn’t feel entitled to view. He tried to remember what it was like when they were children.

Tried to figure out why this felt different.

Gob lowered himself painfully down, biting back a groan, lips pressed together tightly. There was a plate of half-eaten breakfast, now cold, on the table. The television was still on. He had a hand cupped against the bleeding gash above his collarbone, stomach taut with tension as he tried to regulate his breathing. He seemed thinner than Michael remembered, but at the same time he almost seemed to take up more space. Michael was so aware of him. So aware that they were both men, now, and he was caught off-guard by how _wrong_ he’d been. Gob wasn’t the innocent, blundering mess of his previous years, which meant the person in front of Michael was…

…someone else.

“First aid kit,” Gob grunted, head inclined downward as he peered through his bloodied fingers, “It’s under the sink.”

Michael started, realising he was just standing there like an _idiot_ while his brother bled. He turned on his heel, ducking out into the hallway and then turning into the first doorway he found, entering a sunny kitchen. It was smaller than he had expected. He opened the cupboard beneath the sink and found a sizeable clear container with divided sections, items separated into neat groups, organised into categories of aid.

Michael was stunned.

“Since when are you _organised?”_ He demanded as he strode back into the living room, cracking open the lid of the first aid kit. Gob shot him a wry look, eyebrows raised. The edge of his wrist was turning a vivid red, blood leaking through his fingers and down his arm, dripping from his elbow onto his bare thigh.

“I have a job, Michael. I work in a bar, I pay rent. I’ve changed. You’re the _second_ person I’m telling this to today.”

Michael’s heart sank a bit at that. He took a seat on the couch too, digging through the first aid kit. It didn’t take him long to find a packet of white gloves, and he pulled on two before locating cloth, gauze, and tape. He didn’t know whether Gob’s blood was clean, and it wouldn’t be smart to get any on him. He'd taken quite a few courses since joining the laundering game; first aid, gun safety, poison response, you name it. If there was a course, Michael had done it. Being prepared was the only way to survive, and he was nothing if not thorough.

“Del asked you what kind of man you are, huh,” Michael guessed, taking Gob’s wrist and gently easing his hand away from the cut, “He was trying to get a read on you.”

Gob hissed sharply when Michael pressed a cloth hard against the cut, the corners of his mouth twisting into a grimace. A sympathetic stab of guilt twisted at Michael’s gut, and he wished they could’ve met again under other circumstances. This wasn’t right.

“I’m sorry, Gob,” he murmured, “I need- I need to keep pressure on it, so.”

Gob sighed. “No, Michael. I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“I should’ve just… Given you a call.”

Michael stared at him. “You _did_. You called me at midnight last night, before-”

“No, I…” Gob went to rub at his eyes, but stopped when he realised his fingers were tacky with blood. He let his hand fall into his lap, gaze downcast now. “I never see you any more, unless I drag myself along to a Christmas party or something. I just wanted to be part of your life again, brother.”

“…What…?”

“You heard me.”

“…You got involved with the _second-largest drug cartel in Mexico_ because you wanted to  _see me?”_

Gob raised his eyes toward Michael now, a grin slanting his mouth into a cheeky, familiar expression– despite the situation, Michael felt a warm sense of relief, exhilarated to glimpse fondness in his brother’s face again. They were sitting close, and he wanted nothing more than to hold his brother against him just like he’d done in the laundromat.

“We’re the Bluths,” Gob reminded him softly, “When has anyone in our family ever done anything the easy way?”

Michael couldn’t help but smile. “I’ve gotta agree with you there. But still, Gob...”

“I know. I know.” Gob sighed again, the exhalation heavy and tired. “I should’ve… just asked you to have coffee with me or something. Do you even have coffee with people, though?”

Michael thought about it. “Not really? I mean, sometimes, but…”

“But mainly for business.”

Michael wished he could deny it. He certainly wasn’t going on many dates lately. “Yeah. Mostly.”

Gob gestured as if to say, _exactly._ “You’re married to your work. So the only way I could see you was to be a part of that work.”

“You could’ve always gotten involved with the _legal_ side of it again, rather than seek out the money laundering part.”

Gob scoffed. “And be around dad? Be around the Bluth Company itself? I’d rather die.”

Michael thought about responding, but decided against it. Every time Gob brought up their father something about his demeanour changed, and though Michael was certain he knew why, he didn’t want to assume he was totally aware what tortures George Sr. had put Gob through. Neither of their parents had ever raised a hand to them– to Michael’s knowledge– but that hadn’t really been necessary when George Sr. had a silver tongue capable of forcing anybody, let alone children, into doing whatever he wanted. And their dear mother had enjoyed watching them beat each other up, which had started off being cute and fun until Michael snapped Gob’s wrist and Gob retaliated by smashing his head against the concrete. Michael still had that scar, now hidden mostly by his hairline. Sometimes, before he went to sleep, he’d feel for it. Fingers settling against the familiar groove. It was a reminder not to let their parents come between them, ever again.

“So, when you said you’d heard me and dad whispering behind your back about secret business dealings…”

“It was bullshit,” Gob admitted, shrugging his uninjured shoulder, “I wasn’t even around to hear anything. It just sounded like something I would’ve said once.”

Michael nodded, almost impressed. “Well, you fooled me.”

They fell silent. It was almost awkward, but it… wasn’t. It was something else. Gob was looking at him, and Michael directed his attention elsewhere, peeling the cloth off Gob’s shoulder.

“Shit,” Gob complained softly, the word falling from his mouth in a hushed breath.

“The bleeding isn’t stopping.” Michael observed. “This is gonna need stitches.” He replaced the cloth, keeping pressure on it, holding Gob’s shoulder still with his other hand when he pressed down even harder.

“Oh, great,” Gob began, his words hitching momentarily in an expression of pain, “How much does it even cost to go to the ER? I can’t afford-“

“I’m not taking you to the ER, Gob, I’m bringing a private nurse here instead– and what do you mean you can’t afford to go to the ER?”

Gob shot him an incredulous look. “You heard me say that I work in a bar, right? I’m not rich anymore, Michael.”

Michael gawked at him for a while, letting that sink in. “Jesus, you _have_ changed.”

“Oh, screw you.”

“Well, lucky for you, I’m here now. So you don’t have to worry about anything. Little brother’s gonna save you.”

“Fuck _off,_ Mikey,” Gob laughed.

It was in that moment that Michael properly realised the stiff-shouldered obligation of familial closeness had faded into something more intimate, something more organic and loving. They’d never be normal, the two of them, but maybe they could be better. Better than their parents, better than their greedy sister and their neurotic brother, better than the world saw them. Their eyes met, deep brown boring into a lighter hazel, and there was an understanding between them that had never been there before.

Michael’s fingers tightened incrementally where they were curled around Gob’s shoulder.

 

 


	8. Chapter 8

The private nurse that Michael called was an investment in survival. A discrete, highly skilled medical professional that catered for the needs of people who obtained their injuries in questionable circumstances. Gob couldn’t go to the ER and insist that he accidentally stabbed himself at a downward angle because he tripped on the stairs. No, some things were better kept secret. And small breadcrumbs were often what resulted in authorities sketching the bigger picture; Gob couldn’t go to a public hospital after getting a visit from somebody who may one day be under investigation for any number of crimes, ranging from laundering to blackmail to murder. The police would connect the dots, see Gob as being an unwilling accomplice at best, and would immediately start digging into the Bluth family’s business dealings. Michael knew better than to allow a trail like that to develop. All potential loose ends needed to be tied off, or avoided entirely.

So he watched as Gob was given a local anaesthetic and stitched up, trying to suppress the tumultuous anger that churned his stomach whenever Gob winced in pain.

 

***

 

Meanwhile, the man that was the focus of such negative feelings was heading straight for Lucille Bluth’s lavishly large mansion. He was welcomed by a young woman in a simple cleaner’s uniform, her face smooth with the kind of beauty Del was certain Mrs Bluth was bitterly jealous of. He spoke to her for a short while before she led him into the house, passing her a hundred dollar bill for the trouble. Her eyes lit up, and her steps were faster as she retreated down a spotless hallway. Allies, no matter how small, could come in handy in the most unexpected of ways. He preferred to make them as often as possible.

He found Mrs Bluth on a balcony. When he opened the glass door to step out and greet her, he offered her a smile that was at least passably genuine in nature. He did not like her, but he respected her power.

She had stopped dyeing her hair brown since they last met, and now sported a steel grey bob that had been very deliberately shaped to curl just beneath her jaw. Her hands were faintly spotted with age, fingernails painted apple red to match the colour drawn across her lips, and she held a twinkling glass of scotch. The skin of her face pulled just tight enough to suggest she’d undergone multiple surgeries. Del considered– as he always did when he saw her– how inelegantly American women aged. This was a culture obsessed with youth. Materialistic concerns weren’t quite beneath him, but he certainly wasn’t pretending to be twenty years old any more.

“Del,” she said, drawing out his name. He kissed her once on the cheek, not mistaking her politeness for friendliness. He was nothing if not a businessman, and business with Mrs Bluth demanded a certain level of respect. At least initially.

“Lucille,” he replied, still smiling.

“An interesting day to see you,” she continued, leaning back, one hand extended to rest palm-down against the railing, “Why have you come?”

“Your eldest son is now a part of my business, courtesy of Michael.”

“Gob.” A look of distaste soured her expression, and she didn’t even attempt to disguise it. “I can remove him from the equation, if you like.”

“No, that won’t be necessary. I’ve been to see him, he won’t be a threat. He may prove useful.”

“Useful?”

“Yes.”

“I’m astounded by the thought.”

Del didn’t bother relaying tales of Gob’s newly improved sense of dignity, as he knew Mrs Bluth would be unimpressed, and he didn’t give enough of a shit about Gob to bother. He produced a piece of paper from the inside of his jacket, unfolding it crisply and handing it to her.

“I’m here because of this.”

She took it, squinting slightly to read what was printed there. Immediately, upon realising what she was holding, her expression sobered into seriousness. She handed it back, taking a slow sip of her drink, eyes steadily fixed on Del. She managed to stay composed, but it was a near thing.

“You’ve no right to be in possession of that,” she told him.

This time, when Del smiled, he was not pretending to be nice. He stepped towards her, replacing the paper in his jacket pocket.

“As I said, Lucille, your eldest son is now a part of _my_ business. Which makes this document my business also.”

She narrowed her eyes, displeased and– though she tried to hide it– worried. This was history that she had truly intended to stay buried. This was a secret that was tied, without a doubt, to the only period in her life in which she had felt truly helpless.

“What do you want?”

“All I need for you to do,” he explained in a calm tone, “is confirm that Gob does not know this information.”

She watched him silently, and he could see the pain that this conversation was causing her. This was an unexploded bomb that he could set off whenever he wanted, and it would slice right to the heart of everything Gob cared about. Every single moral, belief, and safety he held dear would burn to ash, and he would be left with nothing. Del could cut him into pieces and torture him senseless, but this would be a quicker and more permanent way of getting rid of him for good. He needed the insurance. It was always smart to have a trick up your sleeve.

“He doesn’t know.”

Del stepped away from her, pleased with that confirmation. She had another drink of her scotch, this one longer than the last.

“Secrets are dangerous, Lucille. You should have expected this to surface sooner rather than later.”

 

 


	9. Chapter 9

Gob got dressed after the nurse left, painfully tugging a shirt over his shoulders, betrayed by the slight tremor in his fingers and the pallid colour of his skin. Michael scraped Gob’s breakfast plate clean and washed it in the sink for something to do, and then stood in the hallway outside Gob’s bedroom, arms crossed. He was planning his next move. Del couldn’t be allowed to get away with this, but Michael knew he needed to utilise his anger in a functional, efficient way. He was a favourite of Del’s because he didn’t suffer bullshit, or pedal it; it wouldn’t have been unreasonable to assume that Del would want to test Gob in some way, so acting like this was wholly unexpected would be fucking stupid. No. All Michael needed to do was communicate that this brand of violence was not to be meted out against his family.

Not unless someone fucked up. He knew the price of being in this business.

Michael was distracted by a scraping sound, and the quiet thuds of wood being shifted and dropped. Frowning, he knocked on Gob’s door.

“You okay in there?”

“Yeah,” Gob called through the door, “Come on in, Michael.”

Michael did. His eyes fixed on where Gob was kneeling, removing the briefcase from a gap beneath the floorboards, and then he took in the rest of the bedroom. It was fairly sparse, with off-white walls and what appeared to be a secondhand bed, and the furniture was quite obviously weathered by age. He was distracted by this for only a moment, and then he saw it.

The photograph on Gob’s bedside table.

The photograph of him.

It was a relic of times long past, when they were just innocent children wrapped in the warm arms of spring, hypnotised by birdsong and the smell of petals unfurling from the cherry blossom trees out back. Wind chimes tinkling through a quiet house, the space not yet filled with the discordant yells of alcoholic parents. Waves crashing down onto soft sand, small footprints quickly fading as the sun blazed down from a blue sky, the halcyon bliss of it all almost too good to believe. A part of Michael reckoned that it _was_ too good to believe, and he knew that if he thought hard enough about it he’d dredge up nightmares of a screaming mother and a neglectful father… But he’d always wanted to hold onto that dream. The dream of a happy childhood.

“If you give me those account details again,” Gob said, hefting up the briefcase as he rose to his feet, “I’ll get most of this deposited today.”

A part of Michael considered that he should probably caution Gob against doing anything strenuous given his new injury, but he knew that Del would be expecting Gob to get on with the job at hand– and besides, he didn’t seem to be capable of looking away from the photograph. There weren’t any others displayed in Gob’s house, and it wasn’t a photograph of the family. It was a photograph of _him,_  and him alone.

Gob, now standing, blinked uncomprehendingly at him for a second, then realised where Michael’s gaze was directed. His lips parted in a shocked expression, and he scratched embarrassedly at his neck, glancing between Michael and the polaroid with obvious panic.

“I uh,” he laughed nervously, “Don’t have many photos, so. And e- everyone else in- in the family is- is-”

He cut himself off, and Michael could see him inhaling with a deliberate patience, trying to relax. Their parents had paid for him to attend speech therapy for a while, but it had never worked because their presence in his life had both perpetuated and worsened his stutter; speaking exercises were only good for so much when your self esteem was being torn to shreds at home. Which was why Michael, as he watched Gob deliberately calm himself, felt a swell of pride. They’d both come so far.

“I wasn’t keen on remembering anybody else.” Gob explained finally.

Michael nodded. “That’s fair.”

Gob nodded back at him, his smile tentative and relieved. It hurt to see how much he still feared being reprimanded for stuttering.

“You sure you’re okay to do this, though? Today?”

“Oh, right.” Gob glanced down at the briefcase, then shrugged. “The anaesthetic was pretty good. I’ll be fine.”

“I could always deposit the money, if you want.”

“No, no. I think I should… prove myself. To Del.”

 _And to you,_ said the look in Gob’s eyes. Michael smiled, because he could read between the lines, and there was no mistaking the unique closeness they shared.

“Alright. Let’s go over some points before you leave, okay?”

 

***

 

They left Gob’s apartment together. Hugged briefly in the driveway to the property, exchanging awkward and genuine smiles. Went their separate ways.

Michael sat in his car. The silence was oppressive, and he reminded himself to be calm.

He went back to work.

He stared at a computer. He signed documents. He met with clients. All the while, Del’s clever smile haunted the recesses of his mind. The need to do something rash, to leap to action and _punish_ Del for what he had done, pulsed beneath Michael’s skin like a tick. An itch. A living disease. He rubbed absentmindedly at his arms occasionally, rigid and stiff beneath the fabric of his suit shirt, taking off his tie and throwing it across the room. He put his head in his hands, the sound of his air conditioner amplified by his irritation. It had been a long time since he had gotten this emotional. He was a logical businessman who proceeded with objectivity and reason.

Maybe it’d been a mistake to involve Gob after all.

 

***

 

Michael forced himself to wait.

He went home. He cooked dinner, ate it in a cavernous dining room, alone at the head of an empty table. He washed the dishes. He turned on the television, settled down with a glass of whiskey, and stared at the screen until the sky outside was black.

Then he picked up the phone.

 

 


	10. Chapter 10

_"Hello, Michael.”_

“Hey Del.”

Such a fucking relaxed beginning to the conversation. Michael’s grip tightened around his glass, but he forced himself to stay composed. It wasn’t hard to imagine that Del was here in the room with him, that the consequences of his every word could be immediate and possibly fatal. He was determined to remain professional.

“Sixty percent of the money has been cleaned. It’s in your accounts now. The further forty percent will be transferred tomorrow.”

 _“I’m glad to hear it.”_ There was the sound of shifting fabric, as if Del were also seated, perhaps with a glass of something smooth and expensive in hand. They were oddly unified, the two of them. Always had been. Even in the face of horrific violence. _“But that is not why you called. You should speak your mind.”_

“Should I?”

_“You know I value your honesty.”_

Michael had a sip from his glass, considering that. Choosing his next words very carefully.

“You didn’t have to hurt him.”

Del laughed quietly. Not unkindly. _“Didn’t I?”_

“I knew it was likely that you’d test Gob. But there was no need to stab him. If you’d done your research, you’d have found another way of ensuring the strength of his character.”

_“You think I didn’t do my research? I know all about your brother. I know his secrets. The incident earlier today was a choice, not a necessity.”_

Michael had been afraid Del would say that. He closed his eyes briefly, rolling the burn of alcohol over his tongue, letting the taste and warmth wash over him.

_“I respect you, Michael. And you respect me. But your brother is not you. You should have thought of that.”_

“I did.”

_“And?”_

“Obviously I miscalculated.”

_“Yes, you did. And I hope this does not affect our working relationship, my friend.”_

“…It won’t.”

Del caught the hesitation in his tone. _“Is that conditional?”_

“What did you find?”

_“On your brother? I’m not telling you.”_

“If he’s done something wrong, or if he’s hurt somebody, I want to know. If there’s a potential liability-“

_“Don’t bullshit me.”_

Michael felt an ache in his chest. “I want to be sure I can still trust him.”

Del sighed thoughtfully. _“Oh, Michael. Such love for your brother. I find it inspiring, how much heart you have.”_ He paused. _“I will tell you that you needn’t worry. You brother hasn’t hurt anybody. As far as his criminal history goes, he’s basically clean. A few parking tickers, drunken misdemeanours, possession of illegal drugs, vehicular assault under the influence… But you’re aware of all those things.”_

That was bad. Michael sat forward in his chair, holding his whiskey tighter.

“If you have blackmail material that affects him, but isn’t due to his actions, then that means he saw something. Or he knows something. Is he in danger?”

 _“Maybe.”_ Del was definitely smiling. _“Or maybe not.”_

“Don’t play with me.”

Michael heard his tone become an order, heard the words escaping his mouth before he had a chance to take them back.

He knew immediately that he had made a mistake.

_“You listen to me, Michael. I am in control here. No matter how lenient I am with you, we are not equals. I am willing to give your brother a chance, but I will not hesitate to use the information I have to ruin him. Or I could just kill him. Which would you prefer?”_

“…Neither.”

_“I thought so.”_

“I’m sorry.”

_“Good. Think twice before calling me again, and tell Gob to have the rest of the money transferred by midday tomorrow.”_

Del hung up.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> edit: uuuhh i don't have a beta reader so there are probably gonna be occasional mistakes, just so ya know... i'll try and catch most of them


	11. Chapter 11

The Queen Mary was a popular club, for a place that amounted to little more than a painted cinder block. It had a stage, some tables and chairs, forty-watt bulbs, and a small handful of staff. It walked a strange line between being a traditional pub and a flourishing queer scene; Tobias, rather accidentally, had hired the Hot Cops to liven up the place, and immediately entered the bar into an unintended cultural niche. He had protested at first, owing to the desperation with which he tried to remain closeted, but had eventually relented. Gob didn’t mind. Hell, he’d _worked_ with the Hot Cops for a long while, and done a fair amount of stripping to make ends meet when he was broke. It was a scene he was surprisingly comfortable with.

The bar was also one of the few places where a man could go to smoke cigarettes down to the filter, drink beer backed with whiskey, and be left alone to stare into nothingness. They had a juke box and a generous supply of gin-soaked regulars, and the place was just decayed enough to entice those who were turned off by the newer, more flashy clubs that were so common. Their little spot attracted all kinds of people. Butch biker gangs, fond of hard liquor. Drag groups, eager to perform onstage and earn a couple of bucks. Questioning men who called themselves straight, and were allowed to peek shyly at the lively queerness around them without being judged. Trans people of all orientations, free to dress and present however they wanted in this oddly accepting place. Everybody was welcome.

It was an unexpected haven, no doubt, but Gob felt at home among these people. He wasn’t sure why, or maybe he just didn’t want to think hard about it. He’d been an outcast his whole life, yet at the Queen Mary was overcome by a sense of belonging.

Which was why, that night, he took two painkillers and left his apartment. He was heading for the bar. Still shaken by what Del had done to him, and consequentially unable to sleep, he found that he needed to be around people– and, while he was at it, take care of the thousands of dollars in drug money. The silence of his home was suffocating, and the photograph of Michael on his bedside wasn’t doing much except making him feel lonely. He wanted to call his brother. He wanted to see where Michael was living now, wanted to fold himself seamlessly into the other man’s life the way they’d once fit together, but he didn’t have the guts to try. He was afraid that Michael would reject him. They’d spoken more over the past day then they had in years, and Gob had no desire to push his luck.

He arrived just past midnight, parking out the back. The building’s neon signage cast him in a brilliant blue glow as he locked his car. The first thing he did was deposit the rest of the money in a busted-up ATM they’d installed next to the exit, producing handfuls of notes from the briefcase he’d brought with him. As he made the deposit he constantly glanced over his shoulder at the empty lot, more than a little nervous to be doing this at night; being mugged was generally not fun, but if he lost this amount of money so early on in his burgeoning criminal career then he’d most certainly be killed by Del.

Only when he was finally done, when all the notes were gone from his hands and an empty briefcase sat at his feet, did Gob relax. The tension drained from his shoulders, posture sagging, and he rested his forehead exhaustedly against the wall. There was a sizeable couch in the staff room– installed by Tobias due to how frequently he was kicked out of his wife’s house– that he could use as a bed, and Gob was seriously considering spending the night.

He didn’t want to go back home.

He turned away from the ATM, unlocking his car again so that he could stow the briefcase away. A full-body shock of surprise bolted through him when his phone vibrated loudly. Swearing under his breath, he threw the briefcase in the backseat, fumbling at his pocket and eventually pulling his phone free. Seeing the caller ID, he breathed a shaky sigh of relief, heart still sprinting in his chest.

“Mikey.” He answered, his voice both unsteady and unexpectedly loud in the empty lot. “What’s up?”

 _“Hey."_ Michael replied. _“How’re those stitches feeling? You doing alright?”_

Gob let his brother’s concerned words wash over him. Here he was, shoulder tilted at an unnatural angle to stop the stitches from pulling against his shirt, lightheaded from painkillers, at the beck and call of homicidal gangsters, battered and bruised from tiredness– but his brother cared about him. So none of that even mattered. This whole experience was resulting in more anxiety than he was used to, but Michael’s presence calmed him in ways he still didn’t fully understand.

Shaking himself free from that sense of euphoria, Gob realised that this was probably a conversation best had privately, considering how open and accessible the lot was. He got into his car, locking it.

“Yeah,” he replied when he was seated, “I’m fine.”

_“Are you… in a car right now? I thought I heard a door closing.”_

“Mm. Just deposited the rest of the cash. 'Cause I'm awesome.”

 _“…Wait, really? Oh, thank god.”_ Michael’s voice filled with undisguised happiness. _“That’s fantastic news, buddy, wow. I was stressed, y’know, but you… You came through, Gob, and that’s great. Just great.”_

Gob grinned, head tilted back against his seat. He closed his eyes.

“Thanks, Michael.”

Michael drew breath like he was going to say something else, but he didn’t. The phone line was silent for a long while, and Gob wondered if he should ask what Michael wanted to tell him, but he figured there was no need to insist. He’d sit here and listen to static all night if it meant being close to Michael in some way.

_“I hated seeing you hurt.”_

Gob chuckled dryly. “So did I.”

_“I mean it.”_

Gob’s fingers closed into a gentle fist against his thigh. Michael didn’t just sound serious, he sounded upset, and the sheepishness with which he admitted his feelings made warmth bloom in Gob’s chest. His breathing picked up, if incrementally, and he didn’t quite know how to reply. He strained to hear Michael’s every movement, every patient inhalation and slow exhalation; so very aware of his presence.

 _“I’ll pay you. In cash.”_ Michael cleared his throat as if embarrassed. _“And contact you when Del needs another batch cleaned. Is that okay?”_

“…Yeah,” Gob began, but his voice was scratchy and distracted, so he tried again, “Yeah, sounds good.”

_“Great.”_

There was another long pause.

_“What’re you… What’re you doing tonight?”_

Gob opened his eyes and glanced through his window at the bar’s neon lighting. The idea of sleeping on a hard couch was becoming less and less appealing with every passing second. Now that he’d heard Michael’s voice there didn’t seem to be any need to avoid the emptiness of his apartment or that childhood photograph.

“Not sure,” he eventually admitted.

_“Alright. You better rest up, huh. Help those stitches to heal.”_

“Yeah.”

_“...You know, Gob, if you…”_

Gob frowned. “What?”

_“We don’t spend much time together any more. We haven’t for years. And we’re brothers, we should be spending time together. So, if you… If you want to come by my place sometime and see me, y’know, that would be…”_

Gob grinned.

_“And, hey, I don’t want to make this weird, okay. I know it’s been a while and I can’t expect things to be exactly the same as they were before, but I do want to get to know you again. I know that you've changed and we're very different people, but we're still family and-"_

“I’d love that,” Gob interrupted him softly.

 _“…Yeah?”_ Michael asked hopefully, a smile in his voice.

“Yeah.”

Michael gave a small laugh, and Gob could just  _see_ him, knew his mannerisms so intimately that he could imagine exactly what Michael was doing at this moment. Ducking his head and smiling wide, gaze flickering down toward the floor, the creases beside his eyes testament to the honesty of his expression. He wondered if the knowledge was mutual, if Michael could imagine him as clearly. He hoped so.

_"Well, I should... I should go."_

"Sure, of course." Gob nodded to himself, cheeks hot with a blush he couldn't quite explain. "You, uh. Have a good night, Michael."

_"I will. You too."_

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not gonna lie i could hear michael's voice so clearly while i was writing this and it made me EMOTIONAL


	12. intermission

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I might have to take a couple of weeks out of writing this fic (due to injuries and disabilities and whatnot), so here's a sneak peek at an upcoming scene in a future chapter! No spoilers ;) I promise everything will end up okay   
>  (best viewed on a computer due to sizing... I've never drawn them before, I hope I got their likeness okay....)


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YO IT'S YA BOY. updates will be sporadic but i am still heeerrreee   
>  (no beta reader, no planning, please excuse any errors, yada yada)

Lindsay was fond of the good things in life.

Over the years Michael had entertained her requests for gifts, expensive outings, and fine dining with only mild exasperation. He was aware there were certain things expected of him within their sibling dynamic and he was happy to oblige in order to receive her occasionally-insightful comments. On this day in particular they were at an extremely grandiose restaurant that had marble floors and even _chandeliers_ , to Michael's undisguised disgust. He’d never had dinner in a place so stupidly ostentatious. The dining options were printed on the leather-bound menus, and all cost about triple what Michael considered reasonable. It was all fluff and no substance, and precisely what Michael hated about wealthy lifestyles. Roasted plums, candied apricots with gold leaf, orange tarts, overwhelmingly rich chocolate cake, coffee crème brûlée that was crisp with burnt brown sugar, tiny piles of food meticulously arranged onto overlarge plates… It was excess without reason. He liked to consider himself a man who appreciated what he had, and– especially given Gob’s newfound sense of humility– he wondered why such lessons had bypassed Lindsay so entirely.

Lindsay ordered a glass of champagne, leaning back in her chair and sighing loftily, as if she had anything to actually complain about. She looked like she’d just stepped out of a glossy magazine, like she belonged in a plastic world, surrounded by staged photoshoots and fake houseplants. Her clothes cost more than Michael would dare ever spend on himself, the desperation of married lovers evident in her lavish accessories; her adult life was spent auctioning her love off to besotted suitors, and they threw money at her in hopes that she would finally settle down into a new marriage. Her dress was black and tightly-fitted, her hair was silky and straight, and Michael had never related to anybody less in his life. Her eyes were bright and clear, showing no imperfections, no shadows of a difficult childhood. Michael knew she was brittle, knew what his sister was _really_ like beneath this whole act, but that didn’t really matter any more.

She’d chosen her path.

“I tell you, he’s driving me mad,” she stated resolutely, gesturing with her glass in a way that was probably _supposed_ to appear sophisticated and elegant, but just reminded Michael of their mother’s drunken ranting.

“Tobias?” Michael asked, like he didn’t already know. They had the same conversation every time they met up. It was routine; complaining about familiar topics before they ventured into new territory. Michael hated it.

“Yes, Tobias. He’s insufferable. He wants to be an _actor_ , I mean… _really.”_

Michael nodded, tapping absent-mindedly on the side of his beer bottle.

“And he’s got that bar, the Queen Mary,” Lindsay continued on, apparently not actually seeking Michael’s input, “Have you ever been there? It’s a dump. Totally disgusting. Why my husband would ever associate with such a place is _beyond_ me. Well,” she scoffed and rolled her eyes, “I mean, we all _know_ why he’d been keen on hanging out in a gay bar, but still. He could pick a _clean_ one.”

Michael frowned. “A gay bar, huh.”

“Yes, Michael. A gay bar.”

“Isn’t the Queen Mary…?”

Lindsay had a long sip of her champagne, flicking her hair out of her face with a dramatic flourish when she was finished. “Isn’t that what?”

“Doesn’t Gob work there with him?”

Lindsay shrugged. “Yeah, I think so. They own it together.”

Michael nodded again, this time with a keener, more genuine interest. He hadn’t seen Gob for an entire month. The last time they’d spoken had been on the phone, the night that Gob had deposited the rest of the money, and since then Michael had been unable to stop thinking about his brother. He remembered the way Gob’s voice had been soft and warm in all the right ways, the gravelly cadence of his tone dipping into a more genuine, heartfelt confession than Michael was used to. _I’d love that,_ he’d said. Michael had smiled then, and still smiled every time he thought back to those meaningful words. Some mornings he got up, made himself a coffee, and then sat down at the table to wait. It was unintentional, every time, and in his half-asleep stupor he would meditate on the nature of Gob’s company. He would realise that he was _waiting_ for Gob to appear, _waiting_ for Gob to wander out into his kitchen in one of those dumb silk robes, _waiting_ for the silence and emptiness of his home to be occupied by someone other than himself. Gob had been absent from his life for so long, and Michael wanted him back.

But he couldn’t pick up the fucking phone.

Michael realised he’d become lost in thought, and he snapped back to reality just in time to see Lindsay’s eyes narrow in amused suspicion. She put her glass of champagne deliberately down on the table.

“You know, you could, uh. Divorce Tobias.” He suggested, trying to redirect her attention. “That might solve the problem of him annoying you.”

“And go through divorce proceedings? No way. He hasn’t got enough money to bother. Besides, the marriage is a good way of ending affairs. Tell them I’m faithful to my husband after all.”

Michael couldn’t even bring himself to be shocked at that comment. “You mean, lie.”

“Oh, I do.” Lindsay grinned prettily. “Absolutely.”

“How’s Maeby?”

“She’s fine!” Lindsay answered, with enough enthusiasm that it was obvious she didn’t have any clue where her daughter was at present, or what she was doing. “She’s gay too, you know. Or bisexual. I can never keep up.”

“Huh.”

“Yeah.” Lindsay sat forward in her chair, folding her hands on the table in a scheming way. “Speaking of _gay,_ Michael-”

“There’s a sentence I never thought I’d hear.”

“- why’d you react like that? When I mentioned the Queen Mary?”

Michael grimaced. He had, in fact, come here to get Lindsay’s advice, but he wasn’t sure he wanted it now. He’d forgotten what a soulless, greedy, money-hungry machine she could be. A machine made of lipstick and cash and bitter determination. But, what the fuck, she _was_ his sister, and she had always been relatively nice to him. She certainly wasn’t his mother. Michael picked up his beer, directed his attention to the label so that he had somewhere else to look instead of Lindsay’s face. He was aware the avoidance was obvious, but he trusted her just enough to believe she wouldn’t judge him for it.

“I saw Gob. Last month.”

“Oh, wow. I haven’t seen him in…” Lindsay paused, glancing off into the distance curiously. “Did he come to the last Christmas party?”

“Maybe. I don’t know.”

“Why did you two meet up?”

Michael realised, too late, that he should have come up with a better lie. “I just wanted to see him. It’s been so long.”

Lindsay hummed, pursing her lips in thought. “It sure has. God, I can’t actually remember the last time he and I were in a room together. Is he still doing those magic tricks?”

“Don’t think so. No, Lindsay, he’s…”

“…What?”

Michael pushed his thumbnail against the corner of the beer’s label, peeling it back, the paper soft with condensation. He swallowed, throat unexpectedly tight.

“He’s changed. And it makes me sad to think that we missed that, y’know. That I missed that. He’s always been an outcast in this family, and I… I’d like to see him again, but…”

“ _But_ you’re a gutless loser.”

Michael huffed out a loud sigh, frustrated with himself and with her blunt observation. “Yeah. S’pose I am.”

Lindsay offered a perfunctory nod, like she was some kind of therapist, or a responsible adult who actually had her life together. Michael couldn’t deny she was an appealing package; she’d gotten so good at lying, at pretending to be someone she wasn’t, that she slotted herself into personalities very well. It was only an act, but damn, it was a good one.

“Well, first thing’s first, we’re _all_ outcasts in this family. Gob isn’t special.” She declared as she took up her champagne again, her tone matter-of-fact and confident. “There’s almost nothing holding us together as a whole.”

“Thanks, that helps. So much.”

“What I’m _trying_ to say is that you need to make something new. Like us. We meet, what, once every few months? And we may not be the best of friends, but we’ve made something, Michael. Our own connection. We got to know each other again. What you need is to become Gob's friend, not just his brother."

Michael's eyes widened. He was astounded. "That is... actually very good advice, Lindsay."

She didn't bother pretending to be insulted. "We're Bluths. That means blood is  _not_ thicker than water, by any stretch of the imagination. You have to treat Gob like he's just another guy. Like you're meeting him all over again, becoming close to him in a new way. Start over. Move on from the _crap_ we all dealt with when we were young..." She stopped, realising how genuine her manner had become. "Shame you don't know how to make friends, really, or this would be a lot easier for you."

He laughed grudgingly. Lindsay had always been very good at using barbed jokes to mask her own feelings of vulnerability, which was something Gob had once been skilled at as well. She didn't like referencing their shared childhood. Michael supposed he'd let it be, because she had actually exceeded his expectations.

"Well, thanks for that." He drained the rest of his beer and stood, folding his jacket over his arm. "You have a good night, Lindsay."

She looked surprised. "You're leaving already?"

"You've been eyeing the waiter all night. I know you want to go home with him, so let's just skip to the end, okay?"

"Well," she grinned, glancing across the room towards the kitchen, "What can I say, I love a man in a suit."

Michael resisted the urge to make a joke about that being the reason she'd slept with half the men in the city, and instead decided to play nice. He offered her a real smile, one that told her in a quiet way that he did– despite their incompatible personalities– appreciate their time together. And that he recognised the bravery it took for her to lower her walls, even just for a moment. Family was a touchy subject for all of them.

"Have a good night," he said again, gently this time. 

She smiled back at him, shyer now. More like the girl Michael had grown up with.

"You too," she replied.

 

 


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello i am still alive, shockingly

Michael felt underdressed. It was an occupational hazard for him, as he tended to err on the side of banality rather than risk drawing attention to himself, but his pedestrian fashion choices had never been more apparent than _this_.

The Queen Mary was lit up like a cheap Christmas tree, battered about the edges, lights strung up in an endearing effort to distract from its shabbiness. It was afforded a certain kind of legitimacy by this rundown appearance, and the second Michael set shined shoe on the curb he knew he was an outsider here. Entering through the front door– wood, adorned by a layer of chipped paint and swollen from moisture damage– he felt like an alien leaving his spaceship. The inhabitants of this wild, colourful, exciting place were so diverse he didn’t know where to lay his gaze, didn’t know what to do or say. The music hit him like a freight train going a million miles an hour, accompanied by the realisation that _this_ was Gob’s world now.

It was a world that felt much more honest than his own.

A person near him, slender with pink hair, threw back their head and laughed joyously. Michael couldn’t discern their gender, but they sported tattered leather and had bold tattoos, fingers wrapped around the curve of a glass. They were in conversation with a tall man that wore his age with a courage Michael had never before been able to accomplish. Crowds of people flocked, yelling and drinking, cigarettes held in animatedly gesturing hands. The alcohol ranged from bitter beer to sugar-filled, lime-necked syrup. Two men stood, close, one with a hand on the other’s hip, in full view of the entrance as they kissed. The world had moved on since Michael was young. There were rules that, once unspoken, were now discarded in favour of a freedom that had passed him by and flourished without any input from him.

He rubbed self-consciously at the back of his neck and made his way forward to where he assumed the bar was.

Fuck. He was so much more comfortable with numbers, white pages, and smooth computer screens. It was sad to admit. The only thing that propelled him forward, into the crowd and through the noise, was the thought that he’d see Gob again. It was a motivation that he didn’t want to analyse too deeply. A drive he didn’t want to question.

Maybe he was just fucking lonely.

The first person at the bar, that he could see anyway, was Tobias. The man was weedy and sycophantic as ever, and Michael shrugged his way between gathered bodies with the express intention of avoiding him. He kept pushing through, trying to find a foothold in the chaos, until eventually he emerged up the other end of the bar, practically pushed out into the open by movement behind him.

Gob was there.

He was leaned across the bar, forearms braced down on the wood, neck craned forward as he smiled at a customer. He was wearing a hideously patterned shirt, as was typical for him, and the sight of it brought a smile to Michael’s face.

His feet faltered where he stood, just for a moment. Long enough that he felt his cheeks burn with embarrassment, unsure why he, a man well into his middle-age, would be shy about approaching his own fucking brother. Christ. Lindsay had been right after all. He was a gutless loser.

He dug his hands into his pockets, clearing his throat purposefully, voice lost to the roar of the music.

And then he stepped forward.

 

 


End file.
